


First Impressions

by Smilerlib



Category: Henry Cavill - Fandom, Pedro Pascal - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Mild Smut, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smilerlib/pseuds/Smilerlib
Summary: An unknown writer has the chance of a lifetime.
Relationships: Henry Cavill/Reader, Henry Cavill/You, Pedro Pascal/Reader, Pedro Pascal/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

The train is late, which means I’m going to be late. And it’s raining and I didn’t bring an umbrella which means I’m going to get wet. Don’t they say first impressions count? Well, damp and tardy is not going to be a good look for this meeting. I pull up my jacket sleeve and wipe the condensation from the window to get a better look outside. Almost there. Swigging the dregs of my cold coffee, I gather my laptop with the rest of my belongings and pray I don’t have to wait too long for a taxi.

As I squeeze my way through the throng of passengers leaving the station, the aroma of wet dog and BO hits me, increasing my nausea. I wish I had time to grab another coffee to calm my nerves, but I climb into the first taxi I see and hope the traffic isn’t too bad. I could walk it, but even the short walk from the station to taxi has soaked me through and I don’t have time to go to my hotel and change.

‘ _This is the chance of a lifetime_ ,’ my agent bellowed down the phone when she told me she’d arranged a meeting. I suppose she’s right. It’s not every day some big shot Hollywood producers discover your novel and want to discuss the film rights and the possibility of you writing the screenplay. Even now, sitting in the back of this taxi, watching the sights of London whiz past, I still think I’m dreaming. Who would’ve thought that someone thousands of miles away on the other side of the Atlantic would even know it exists. Know my name. Little old me. At first I thought my agent was winding me up. I was on a break in the staff room at work when she rang. Though my book had done reasonably well for a debut, I hadn’t been able to given up my day job in the library. I hadn’t told my colleagues about my secret writing life, so I had to contain my excitement though I wanted to scream it from the rooftops.

But here I am in London. It’s like another world. Climbing up the hotel stairs to the entrance, I feel distinctly underdressed in my jeans and blazer. At 6 o’clock this morning I had thought I looked smart, like a proper writer, but now I feel really out of place. This place is _fancy_. The grand Victorian facade looms over me me, eating me up. The doorman looks me up and down as if I’m something the cat had dragged in.

Crossing the lobby, my heels clatter like thunder over the marble floor. Water drips from my hair, pooling into puddles in my wake. Guests in designer suits with perfectly coiffed haircuts glance up from their iPhones as I dash past. I’d been texted the location of our meeting, but this was a big place. Tears threaten as I spin round, trying to get my bearings among the throng. I'm half an hour late and sure I've missed my chance. I mean, why would they wait after being stood up by a nobody like me? Now I rued not getting the train the night before so I could do a recce. I would’ve arrived calm and collected, not this hot mess. But my small publisher’s budget couldn’t stretch to a two night stay, so I had to make do. As I turn back to retrace my steps, I skid a little on the floor. Only two strong hands stop me from colliding with the floor. I glance up, face burning. A tall, dark haired man smiles down at me.

‘Hey! Are you alright?’

His voice is deep and husky. And American. I think about my age. Dressed casually in long sleeved white t-shirt, dark blue jeans and red trainers. His deep brown eyes look sleepy, and along with his ruffled hair, he looks like he’s just got out of bed. Not many men can sport a moustache so stylishly without looking like a porn star, I think. He looks familiar, as if I’ve seen him in another life. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.

‘Yes, thanks,’ I stutter as he helps me up. His touch sends a shiver through me as I pull away. What the? I don’t have time for this.

‘Thanks. Sorry, I-I’ve gotta go,’ I say, pointing wildly in what I hope is the direction of my meeting.

I might be imagining it, but I’m sure I can feel his gaze still on me as I walk away.

After some time wandering through long, identical corridors, I find the room. I push the door open and stumble through, aware of eyes on me like lasers. A blond haired woman in a dark suit looks up from her phone, frowning as I enter. Her mouth contorts like she’s chewing wasps. 

‘Hi!’ I say, sheepishly, raising my hand in a half wave.

I’m about to start my spiel of excuses when a man walks in from the adjoining room. It’s him. My rescuer from the lobby. The words vanish from my mouth. I must be standing there staring, but I seem to have lost the use of my limbs and can’t move. My heart rate has doubled and I hope he doesn’t want to shake my suddenly sweaty hand.

‘Well, Miss Y/L/N. We meet again.’

There is the ghost of a smile on his full lips. He walks over to me and extends a hand. It could be my nerves, but my pulse seems to quicken at his touch.

‘Pedro Pascal,’ he introduces himself, cocking an eyebrow.

Well, this is going to be interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

After the heat of the hotel room, the cool air outside stings my face. Standing on the pavement for a minute or two, I calm myself, let my heartbeat return to it’s normal rate. Relief washes over me as I inhale the damp air into my lungs. What I need right now is a glass or two of red wine, but it's still a while until lunch, so I decide to settle for a cappuccino. In a daze, I head for the nearest coffee shop, hoping a caffeine hit will settle my nerves.

In the end, the meeting turned out better than I expected, but I’m glad it’s over. Sitting in such close proximity to Pedro disrupted my train of thought, made me dull and monosyllabic, when I wanted to be smart and funny. His direct gaze never left me, his brown eyes absorbing my every expression, every word. There was so much I wanted to say, and my mind blanked every time I looked at him. He seems to have that effect on me. I cringe at how unprofessional I must’ve seemed, with my wet clothes and hair, barely making eye contact. My only consolation is that at least they seemed enthusiastic about my book. Pedro even said it was the best book he’d read for years! So they’ve invited me over to LA for some more talks. I can’t believe it, _me_ in LA!

Checking my watch, I’m relieved to have enough time to go back to my hotel and change before my book signing. My agent was eager to squeeze this in, and as she got me the meeting, I didn’t feel like I could refuse. I doubt anyone will turn up though, I’m hardly on the bestseller lists. But, I suppose it’ll be a good experience, build up my confidence. Even though I’ve had this tiny bit of success, it still feels like I'm dreaming and will be found out one day. For now though, I'm enjoying the ride. Stretching my legs, I make my way to my hotel, taking my time to absorb the sights and sounds of London.

It’s late afternoon when I arrive at the store. Although the rain’s stopped, there’s a chill in the air; I wish I’d worn a cardigan over my thin summer dress. Taking a deep breath, I head inside. The place feels small for so many books, the shelves reaching from floor to ceiling, hundreds of volumes crammed into the tiny space. Dark, dimly lit corners hide mysterious worlds and evil villains. It’s a labyrinth you could get lost in for days. My idea of heaven.

‘Hi, Y/N! It’s _so_ nice to meet you!’ The store owner greets me, leading me into the depths of shop. It’s like a Tardis and seems to go on for miles and miles. ‘I love, love, _loved_ your book,’ he continues as I take in my surroundings. If I had the time to explore this place, I’m sure I could spend a fortune.

He prattles on as I settle down behind a table he’s arranged at the back of the store, a pile of my books stacked high. My nerves rise as people begin to arrive. As expected, it’s a small crowd. My mouth goes a little dry and I can feel myself warming up. Taking a sip of bottled water, I put on my best smile. I tell myself this will be a piece of cake after this morning.

‘Hello!’ I greet the first woman in the queue. She’s hugging a well worn paperback copy of my book to her ample chest. Reluctantly, she releases it to me. I can tell she’s nervous. I remember what it’s like to queue in line to meet your favourite author; I’ve done it many times, not even being able to spell my name when asked. So I break out another smile to put her at ease. ‘What’s your name?’ I scribble quickly as she gushes about my book. She rabbits on, telling me how much she loved the book and characters, but my mind keeps slipping back to this morning. Will I see him again? I’ve no idea how movies work or how involved a producer is with the screenplay. He'll probably be too busy anyway, I think.

The small queue keeps me occupied for a little while. Soon, I’m on autopilot, smiling and signing, smiling and signing. My hand starts to ache and the whirl of faces in front of me becomes a blur.

‘Hi!’ I say, not looking up at the next in line. ‘What’s your name?’

There is a beat of silence, while I freeze, hand poised, waiting for the next book. Maybe the customer didn’t hear me over the noise. Glancing up, my heart stops. _He’s_ staring down at me, dark eyes glittering.

‘Pedro Pascal,’ he says, lips curling into a soft smile.

'Hi! Pedro!’ I say, my voice an octave higher than usual.

‘Miss Y/L/N. What a pleasant surprise.’ The husky way he says my name sends shivers down my spine.

Somehow, I don’t think this is a surprise. I can’t help but wonder what the hell he’s doing here. How did he find out I was doing a book signing? Sitting back in shock, I take him in. He looks likes he’s just wandered in from a photo shoot, hair all tousled, smart in a navy jacket, white shirt and jeans. I feel my face flush and under the table I pinch the skin on my hand to make sure I’m not dreaming.

‘Pedro,’ I half whisper. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, I was in the area, and I needed a new book for the plane, so...’ he trails off, as if that explains it. Yeah, what a coincidence, I think.

‘Plus, I wanted a signed copy of my favourite book,’ He hands me the hardback he’s holding. He looks serious, but I can tell he’s trying not to smile. Shaking my head, I try to gather my thoughts. He is _not_ here to see me, I tell myself. I can barely stop my hand trembling as I illegibly scrawl his name inside.

‘Well, it was nice to see you again,’ I say, as I hand back the book, because I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s like the minute I see him I lose the power of articulate conversation.

His next words surprise me.

'Look, this is gonna sound forward, and you can say no if you want,’ he hesitates, leaning closer. ‘But I’d really like to buy you a drink. We didn’t have much time to talk this morning and I’d love to get to know you better.’

The words rush out, as if he’s been holding them in all day. I might be imagining it, but I think he’s nervous. Surely not? Not this big Hollywood star? And he wants to get to know me better. _Me._ For a second I think I should play it safe, go back to my hotel room, put on my pyjamas and order room service. Then I’ll get on the train tomorrow morning and forget about him. As if _that’s_ going to happen. But then, I think this is a day of doing new things and taking risks, so I agree.

We end up in a small pub round the corner from the book shop. It’s a typical English local, fitted out with leather booths and dark wood. Several empty glasses sit discarded on the table between us, and I’m not sure how many are are mine. I don’t know what time it is, but I know it’s late. Alcohol has unleashed my talkative side; I’m relaxed and happy. I don’t even care that I have an early train the next morning. I’m just enjoying being here, with him, relishing the attention for once instead of running away. We’re both at that lovely stage between tipsiness and all out drunkenness where everything seems right with the world.

‘So, what does a bestselling author do in their free time?' he asks, apropos of nothing. He’s sitting opposite me, elbows on the table. His frown concertinas, his eyebrow cocked inquisitively. I love how expressive his face is, how it shows his every thought.

‘I’m not a bestselling author” I laugh, swigging the last of my gin. ‘I don’t think I even made the top 100!’ I put my head in my hands, pretending to upset.

‘Well, _I_ liked your book,’ he slurs a little. He touches my hand, consoling me. I don’t pull away but let his hand slip into mind. It feels comfortable there. ’And once we make this movie, it’s gonna be _huge_!’

Still holding my hand, he gulps down the last of his beer and I wonder if he’s going to call it a night. I begin to pull my hand away, preparing myself for the inevitable, but he squeezes it, not letting go. The pressure of his skin on mine makes my insides flip.

‘But seriously,’ he carries on, ‘What are your other passions, besides writing?

‘Well, I guess I like anything creative,’ I shrug, trying to concentrate and not focus on the way is thumb is caressing my hand in soft circles. ‘Um, you know, like dressmaking, painting, that sort of stuff.’

‘Wow! And did you make this beautiful dress?’ He reaches over with his other hand to feel the flimsy fabric of my sleeve, casually touching my skin. Have I had too much too drink, or is it hot in here?

‘Yes, I did.’ I nod, not quite believing he’s interested in my boring life.

Suddenly, I stand and spin round, letting my skirt fly up, showing off my dress. I would never do this if I was sober. Pedro joins me and we’re twirling and giggling. We attract quite an audience; the other drinkers look on aghast. Finally, we sit down, out of breath, our laughter subsiding a little. This time he’s right next to me, so close our arms and thighs are touching. His breath is hot on my face. He takes my hand, examining the inside of my wrist. I can scarcely breath, feeling his fingers softly stroke the skin over the small tattoo there.

‘What’s this?’ he asks.

‘A Maltese Cross, for my mother. She passed away a couple of years ago.’ My voice is quiet as I remember her. ‘This is for mi madre,’ he tells me, lifting up his shirt sleeve to show me the letter V inked there. I look at him then, his eyes sombre, and know we understand each other’s loss. He edges closer, until just millimetres separate us. In the ensuing silence, the only sound is our quickening breath.

'Y/N, I’ve wanted to do this all day,’ he says, cupping my face in his hands.

And he then kisses me.


	3. Chapter 3

Before I can stop him, Pedro’s mouth is on mine, lips fiercely tasting every inch of me. He grasps a handful of my hair, pulling me closer, drinking me in. Part of me wants him to stop, thinking how indecent this must seem to onlookers, how any minute now we’ll be thrown out of the pub. But the other part doesn’t hold back, wrapping my hands round his neck, blocking everything else out but him. We’re in our own little bubble, oblivious to the world. As his lips ghost kisses down my neck, my spine tingles in response, the hairs standing up on my arms.

That pleasant sensation is interrupted by a buzzing in my brain. It persists, like a fly trying to fight its way out of a jam jar. I try to brush it off, concentrating on the sensation of Pedro’s hot skin against mine, the heat transferring from his touch and rising through my body. But the sound is constant, like a siren. Or a voice. A woman’s voice. Opening one eye, I see a blur hovering over me. As I focus, the flight attendant stares down at me, while passengers retrieve their belongings, shoving past as they make their to the exit. Groggily wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth, I remember I’m on a plane back home.

The city greets me with the worst storm in years. A howling wind whips me off my feet, pushing me down the plane steps as if urging me to forget the last few months. The rain clatters down onto the ground in an unwelcome refrain, the dampness seeping into my thin jumpsuit and bringing me back to reality with a bang. As soon as I step onto the tarmac, the chilly air hits me, the dream of Pedro evaporating in a gusty breeze. I pull my flimsy cardigan across my shoulders, digging for my passport in the depths of my bag and hurry towards the terminal.

Waiting in the long queue, watching the downcast, grey faces of other passengers, I realise I already miss LA more than I thought I would. I long for the endless sunshine, the warm kiss of the sun on my skin. I miss my tiny apartment. I miss my new friends. Most of all, _I miss Pedro_. During the long flight, I realised that doing the friends only thing with him is not for me. After all the time we spent together working on my screenplay, each skirting around the topic of that kiss and where do we go from there, I know something has to change. When I get back, I’m going to be brave and tell him how I feel.

I’ve only been back in London a couple of days when I run into Henry, my ex. After everything that’s happened with my work on the script and my time with Pedro, I haven’t given him a second thought. Seeing him again pushes all the guilty thoughts back to the front of my brain. I had left while he was working, not even giving him the courtesy of a proper goodbye. I hadn’t even rung him to wish him Happy Birthday. So much for saying we could still be friends. The guilt twists in my stomach and I pray he hasn’t seen me.

But there he is, larger than life, in the same busy restaurant where I’m having lunch with my publisher. Hoping to avoid the inevitable, I look anywhere but in his direction. A woman with a toddler sits across from us, neatly spooning baby food into his mouth, not spilling a drop. I swear that is the best behaved child I’ve ever seen. A rare flash of sunlight spills through the window, illuminating a couple sitting there, making then seem to glow with happiness. Finally, my eyes settle back on Henry as he crosses the room. He’s seen me. Heads turn as he moves effortlessly between tables, and it’s not just the women who stare. No wonder; his dark jeans, blazer and white shirt accentuate his masculine silhouette in all the right places. Perspiration trickles down the back of my neck and I take a sip of iced water in a vain attempt to quench the heat rising in me.

He comes over with a nonchalant swagger, his dark curls left untamed and falling into his blue eyes, a big smile showing his perfect teeth. As he approaches, I glance up at him, my face burning

‘Henry,’ I force a smile, the last mouthful of my salad stuck in my throat.

‘Hey, Y/N.’ He leans downs, his body casting a shadow over me, and skims a soft kiss on my cheek. I explode silently inside. ‘You’re back.’

'Just for a few days,’ I stress, not wanting him to get any ideas.

We’d broken up for a reason; Henry had wanted to start a family and I didn’t. As the arguments became more frequent and heated, we grew further apart. _We’re not getting any younger_ , he’d say, and I’d snap back that he was free to choose a younger model. _All our friends have kids_ , he’d repeat ad nauseam, and I’d roll my eyes and turn my attention back to the movie we were watching. The move to LA was a good excuse to end it. Although he insisted we could do the long distance thing, I knew in my heart it’d never work. I still loved him, we just wanted different things.

And now he was here. And somehow, after all that history and hurt, we wound up in his bed. It was like some magnetic force pulling us back together.

‘Well that was...unexpected,’ I say. Henry’s lips curl into a wicked grin, and he catches my mouth in his, kissing me greedily before rolling to his side of the bed.

‘Unexpected good, or unexpected bad?’ he quizzes me, arching his eyebrow as he takes in my nakedness. I pull the sheet up to cover myself, feeling suddenly shy under his hungry gaze. Despite all the time we were together, I still have my insecurities next to this perfect hunk of a man.

‘Well...’ I start, confused. This was not how I thought things would go this afternoon.

'Uh-oh, that’s not good.’ He turns onto his back, covering his eyes with the back of his hand in mock offence.

I sigh heavily, not knowing where to begin. I crumple the fabric in my hand, stalling for time. A lump forms in my throat; telling the former love of my life I’ve met someone else is not going to be easy.

Henry looks at me, his bright eyes searching for an answer.

‘I feel like I’m at the Olympic games, waiting to be judged.’ he jokes, trying to ease the tension that’s suddenly filled the room. ‘Do I at least get a 10 for execution? I mean I know the difficulty and content were average, but it’s been a while. I’m out of practice.’

His face crinkles into a sad smile and I can’t help but smile back. It’s like he knows how hard this is for me and wants to make it better. He was always so good at that. I lean into him and he takes me into the crook of his arm. I inhale the familiar smell of his musky cologne, intermingled with sex and sweat. For a moment I think how good it would be to always be here with him, happy and sated like this. But despite our great chemistry together, the arguments and tears were never worth it.

‘You’ve met someone, haven’t you?’ he exhales, brushing my hair away from my face. Raising my head up to look at him, I just nod, blinking rapidly to stem the threatening tears.

'I would’ve told you, but I didn’t expect...this.’

It’s a poor excuse but the only one I have. How many times had I pulled out my phone, my finger poised over his number. But the words were never right and I didn’t want to rub his nose in my happiness.

‘Is it serious?’

The heat of his proximity muddles my thoughts, so I edge away from him, bringing the sheets with me as I move to the corner of the bed. He stretches out, cat like, and a hint of regret tingles inside me as I watch the rise and fall of his broad chest.

‘It hasn’t really started.’ I murmur, grasping for an explanation.

Henry pulls the sheet away, giving me no where to hide. I begin to speak, but the words are lost in his kiss. Gasping for air as he retreats, I stroke the skin along his arms, feeling the strength there. He hovers over me, and I sense the hardness rising in him again. He wants me to forget Pedro. This time, I don’t respond.

‘It’s serious,’ he says firmly, halting his movements. He grazes his lips against mine in a sigh and releases me.

And then he is gone, the bed bare expect for the warm imprint of him in the mattress and the scent of him on the sheets. He doesn’t look back, or say a word.

This time it is really the end.


End file.
